RED: Itachi Uchiha
by LeDahliaNoir
Summary: Sakhalin Island. 1942. Danica is medic. Tough, resilient. Just like the people of her homeland. She does what she can to help her country win the war. But some things aren't written in history books.
1. Prologue

Danica Morozova was a loyal Russian. Her favourite colour wasn't red, but she loved her country. She was from a land of ice and snow; a land of bitter summers and lethal winters. Despite the snow that blanketed her homeland's landscape, the ground was seeped in centuries of blood. Beautiful, unblemished ground, tarnished by the selfish, idealistic ways of man; albeit gruesome, it was her home. Was her home. Her new home wasn't much different. It still snowed. The winds still battled one another for dominance. And blood still oozed from the soil.

Most of her nights were spent scrubbing bloodstains from her aprons, praying that next time there wouldn't be as much to remove. But there always was. The cotton of her petty, homemade apron never returned to its original colour; it always retained a minute piece of every person that she treated, a reminder that no matter how hard she scrubbed, no matter how many times she rinsed, she would always have blood on her hands. After all blood was blood. Amaranthine and gluttonous. It didn't matter who's blood it was. Good, bad. Japanese or Russian. Danica didn't care. She had a duty. Heal and protect.

Her husband on the other hand: Ruslan Morodov. A lion amongst men. He was a loyal and noble Russian. He drank his vodka straight and bled tales of revolution. He was a true Red, a devoted son of Mother Russia. Whereas Danica's arsenal was made up of morphine shots and bandages; Ruslan's array consisted of Tokarev rifles and the type of cocktails that weren't served in the Hotel Astoria.

Ruslan had big dreams for a man from a small town. He wanted his country to thrive and overcome the pestilence that was the Nazi regime. At night he slept with a combat knife beneath his pillow and loaded pistol strapped to his ankle. Danica's dreams were different. She dreamt she had wings and claws. Sometimes she flew over mountains, where the snowy regions were more like wild oceans of white and the sky was a dense forest of blue. Even when she woke Danica could still feel her nostrils sting with the fresh, untainted air, instead of the usual tang of copper that scratched the back of her throat and made her teeth ache.

But eventually, even her dreams were painted red.


	2. один - odin - 1

The Aniva Lighthouse was a literal beacon of light for the lost. A means to an end. After endless days and nights of temperamental oceans and rain explosive enough to sink ships, the Aniva Lighthouse was a sight for sore and sea weathered eyes. The structure was perched on an outlay of craggy rocks; long, claw like ridges that sliced through the water, leaving no trace of their existence. The surrounding water was equally as treacherous. Deep blue. It kept the entire island prisoner. At times, the ocean was kind, permitting almost; it would allow the local fisherman to reap the rewards of their hard day's work and permit tired naval ships to dock and restock supplies.

Danica hated the lighthouse. For most, the buttery yellow light was a source of comfort and warmth; a reminder that dawn was approaching, and that the night was not forever. For her it was a nightly source of annoyance. After days of bed pans and soiled sheets, the last thing Danica wanted was to be kept up by beams of light hitting her in the face; even her threadbare curtains did a poor job of keeping the light at bay. Considering her suturing skills were top notch, embroidery was never her forte; the type of silk she was accustomed to was not for decorative purposes.

All's Danica wanted was one night of uninterrupted sleep. One night. If it wasn't the lighthouse assaulting her delicate eyesight, it was Ruslan's constant twitching keeping her awake. There had been, on occasion, times when Danica woke with blood on her pillow; dark, crusty burgundy that clung to both her sheets and olive skin. It was a sad concept that it didn't surprise her anymore, the sight, the smell, even the taste; they were old friends, comrade in arms.

"Govno." Shit. Danica sighed in exasperation; leaden, Ruslan still dozed contently, his golden locks sprouting in every direction. The combat knife that Ruslan was so fond of lay bloodied in his grasp beneath his pillow; droplets of her blood already dried onto the serrated edge. Svolach. Bastard. Danica growled under her breath, the sound gravely and animal like; sometimes she wished she had said no to his proposal, remained a frolicking lamb rather than a lioness under duress.

Danica eased herself from out of their rickety, wooden bed; it came with the cabin, it was quaint, in a charming way. Numerous nails stuck out from the bed joints, 'a quick fix to a long-term problem' Ruslan had said. A few years later and the bed had a few more nails to add to the collection. Men. Despite being on its last legs, and having enough iron to ward off an entire court of fairies, Danica loved their little cabin. She loved the original floor boards that still faintly smelled of pine, regardless of the years of alcohol that had been spilled on it.

Wrapping a nearby shawl around her shoulders Danica prodded at the dying fire, as usual the log basket was running low; she had asked Ruslan to chop wood, but he clearly had more important things to do than restock the basket, so they didn't freeze. Svolach. She loved her husband, just sometimes she wanted to hit him with the axe rather than the wood.

"Mmmm Pchelka," Honey. Ruslan groaned from on the bed, his face still half shrouded by the pillow he was occupying. "Pchelka, is the coffee ready? I need to leave soon for my shift." True to his namesake Ruslan stretched out like a cat in the summer sun, the combat knife an extension of his arm. The early morning sun cast a flaxen glow on his head, a halo of golden light, but Ruslan was far from an angel.

"No." Danica paused, glancing over her shoulder as she brushed off the caked blood on her forearm. "The coffee is exactly where you left it, Pchelka." Danica's smile was sucre sweet, enough to make a dentist cringe. She inclined her head over towards the pantry, the coffee tin seemingly waving back in response. "You're not the only one that works, remember."

Ruslan growled and threw his head back into his pillow, the knife in his hand looming awfully close to his bare flesh. One small nick and the blade could easily slice his skin. Wishful thinking.

Danica stood, twisting her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck; regardless of how much pomade she slathered on it, the curls always found a way to spring free. "I'm covering Galina's shift, so I won't be home until tomorrow. There is spare okroshka in the pot, but we'll need to go to town for more rations, we've ran out of Spam and flour."

"I'll see if I can wrangle us a chicken from Piotr, he still owes me from last month's poker night." Ruslan offered – his version of an apology. A meagre one. Ruslan peered up at Danica, his lower lip puckering and accentuating the small scar beside his cupid's bow. He was handsome. She couldn't deny that. He wasn't classically handsome, he didn't have a roman nose or a chiselled jawline; in fact, his nose had been broken so many times over the years it remained permanently swollen. His eyes though. Slate ringed rain – that's what they reminded her of. She'd spent many a night staring into those eyes whilst listening to the same rain hit the roof of their little cabin.

"I'll see if I can get my hands on some garlic – keep the vampires at bay." Danica replied, a minute smile twisting onto her lips. A white flag of sorts. A truce. Ruslan's periwinkle orbs lit up and the scar on his lip widened as he smiled.

"That would be," Ruslan paused, his eyes searching Danica's. "nice."

"Well then," Danica breathed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I um, I guess it's a date." She took one last glance at Ruslan on the bed, the way his eyes devoured her scantily dressed form. It unnerved her. Like a lamb staring into the eyes of a butcher, she watched him with an animal like stillness. He was a voracious lover, verging on animalistic; he liked it rough, too rough at times. Danica finally looked away; even behind the closed door she could still feel his eyes lingering, searching, waiting.

The fresh air always cleared her head. As much as she loved her, their little cabin, sometimes it felt too stuffy, too enclosed; as if the panes of glass were bars. Hard, sturdy metal used to entrap her, a bit like the band of metal on her finger. The sliver of gold on her finger was more leaden than precious metal. A prison sentence posing as a marriage vow. Outdoors, away from the hustle and bustle of the hospital, from the bloody rags and cries of dying men; the wind didn't tell her lies or make promise it couldn't keep. The trees didn't leave trails of violet on her skin, tender welts that brought tears to her eyes. Outside, she was free.

The hospital was a grey building, both in stature and atmosphere. The inside was equally as monotone; the white-washed walls were cracked and tired, years of trauma had taken its toll. Even the staff seemed duller, fatigued. The War was hard on everyone, including Danica. She had seen things that no one should have to witness. She had seen grown men sob and call for their mothers who waited at home for their return; she had held children who had no clue that they were about to die. She had witnessed an alphabet of horrors.

Amidst the heartache and exhaustion Sakhalin Island had united under the pressure, like coal transforming into a diamond. Perhaps it was their Russian lineage, but everyone was comrade in arms; spare ration packets mysteriously found their way under the doorways of struggling families and some locals shared their fireplaces with abandoned pets. Danica pitched in where she could; extra hours at the hospital, volunteering at the medical outposts on the outskirts of the island.

She had her part to play in the War. She just needed to live long enough to play it.


	3. два - dvah - 2

The Red Cross insignia on Danica's arm was as bright as the dawn. Vibrant vermillion. The colour red followed her everywhere she went. On the band of her medic insignia, the scarlet painted on her lips…the blood on her hands.

"I need a tourniquet and some forceps!" The doctor called, his voice had an eerie calm to it. He had seen this all before, as had Danica. The injured man writhed like a coiling snake; nearby nurses held him down as they attempted to administer a shot of morphine. He wasn't a huge man, more a boy. His cries echoed around the hospital room, bouncing of the newly washed tiles.

"He's bleeding out, I need them forceps please nurse." The doctor pressed down on the young man's thigh where pools of blood continued to spurt out. Danica looped the tourniquet around the top of the man's thigh and pulled – hard.

"Yamero!" Stop! The young man cried, the nurses pushed back, pinning him to the bed. Danica glanced at the crying male, the blood still pooling around her hands, the fabric of his torn pants gulping the escaping red liquid. The doctor cursed, his own hands slick and incarnadine; the forceps were slippery in his fingers, one false move and the man would die, a part of him wanted to fumble, to let the bastard die.

"Will one of you hold this Harbour-Bomber still, before I cut his fucking leg off!" The doctor cursed, his grip on the man's leg momentarily faltering. Danica bristled, her brow furrowing together.

"I think you need to leave Doctor Pavlov." Danica ordered, beside her, the nurses watched wide-eyed, they still restraining the young man. "Now." Danica reiterated, her tone icy verging on venomous. Doctor Pavlov's nostrils flared like a raging bull; he was a good doctor, the War simply hindered his Hippocratic oath. Pavlov stormed off, a cloud of colourful language storming overhead. Danica stared at the remaining nurses, her hand still holding onto the tourniquet in an iron vice grip. Like mice they scuttled off after the fuming doctor.

"Dangan." Bullet. Danica motioned to the crying man's thigh; he was barely twenty. Alone, scared. He had every right to cry out. He just didn't deserve the type of shit that Doctor Pavlov tried to pull. They held each other's gaze; despite the language barrier the young man seemed to understand Danica's broken Japanese. Sweat drenched and pallid the young man nodded in understanding; grabbing the bars of the bed the man prepared himself for the pain that was to ensue.

Danica worked quickly and efficiently; it didn't take her long to suture up the bleeding artery and extract the offending bullet. He was lucky. Although pale, the young man was no longer on death's door, no reaper lurked behind the cubicle curtain and no priest was needed to give the poor man his last rights. Instead he lay drifting in and out of morphine dreams, high and unaware of how close he came to feeling death's eternal touch. It would have been the last touch he felt.

Twelve hours in and Danica was waning. Her shoulders ached, and her back was as stiff as a board; her skin was glowing with sweat and the bags beneath her eyes were deeper than usual. Footsteps made her stop what she was doing.

"Dani? Are you ok?" A light, lilting voice called from behind her. Immediately the scent of patchouli drifted by her nostrils; clean, crisp. Klara Lebedeva. Simply put, Klara was beautiful. Tall, elegant. She was a ballerina before the War started; she had traded her tutus and pointe shoes for gauze and overalls. Danica turned and smiled; stray curls sprouted from beneath her nurse's cap, she looked more mad-woman than medic.

Klara on the other hand. The blonde was radiant. Waves of honey-blonde hair peeked from beneath her nurse's cap, coiffed curls that remained immaculate throughout all of her shifts. Witchcraft if you asked Danica.

"Klara," Danica's smiled widened, it was hard not to around Klara; she was a ray of sunshine. Sometimes people had to avert their eyes as she was too bright, too intimidating. Others basked in her warmth, she could make anyone feel wanted or special. She cared. She genuinely wanted to make a difference in this hell-hole. "I'm fine, I just need to keep away from Doctor Pavlov before I ram a pair of forceps up his arse. Svolach."

"I heard what went on - how's the patient doing? Marvellous if your handiwork is anything to go by." Klara grinned, catching the attention of nearby soldiers who whispered in hushed tones amongst themselves. "Has he said much?" Klara eyed the sleeping man with feline precision, her hazel orbs never missing a single detail.

Danica shook her head and sat up from her chair; the sturdy stool made her back ache even more and gave her crying legs no reprieve. "Aside from asking us to stop earlier, not a peep out of him. I managed to say he had a bullet in his leg and from there it was smooth sailing."

"Speaking of smooth sailing, I think you should have a break before you end up in the bed beside him. I'll cover for you. You can't fight Doctor Pavlov, running on empty." Klara offered, the bags beneath Danica's eyes felt as heavy as her legs did. Sleep sounded wonderful. Even the word made her stomach flip and toes curl.

"Klara, if I've not told you before, I love you and you're an angel."

"Oh, I know."

Danica was surrounded by green. Rich, vibrant foliage that sang out to her; it called to the blood in her veins and the dust of her bones. The song of the wild had choruses of tall fir trees, their roots winding deep into the bass of the earth. The canopy was thick and luscious. Neighbouring trees mingled together, their branches reaching towards one another, like lovers leaning into an embrace.

The song was interrupted by screaming. The sound was hoarse, as if the creature making the sound had been doing it for a while. Danica searched the woods, her eyes darting about frantically. The shadows in between tree trunks eddied and swirled in retaliation. This was not their doing. She began to run towards the screams; they crescendoed, arcing in pitch and desperation.

Then they stopped.

Danica halted, the mud piling around her boots. The woods became silent, unnaturally so. Then she heard it. Low, visceral. Danica held her breath. She was standing upwind when the scent of tangy copper drifted by on the breeze. Fresh blood.

Then a sudden jolt had her waking up.

"Dani! We need help!" Klara called, her tone was urgent. Scared. Klara was never scared. "Dani now!"

Disorientated, Danica assessed the room she was in. The same hospital room she had fell asleep in. Her chest pounded and a fine sweat laced her skin, more than she had accumulated on her shift. Whatever evil lurked in the woods, it was near.

It had come to the hospital.


	4. tри - tree - 3

The hospital was a war zone. Danica had seen first hand the effects of the War. The heartache, the woe. But this…This was carnage. Bleeding men and women were one thing, she was accustomed to that; she was used to limbs hanging on by a thread and shrapnel still clinging to its victims.

The hospital wing was bathed in blood. An incarnadine sea right there on the floor. Rivers of red trailed in from the entrance, and smaller tributaries flowed in between the grouting of the tiles, the movement almost hypnotic to watch. Despite the chaos, everything moved in slow motion. Danica watched the onslaught of zooming gurneys and stretchers lurch past her; some people were already dead, their lifeless corpses already piling up behind designated screens.

"Dani! Over here! Quick!" Klara called, her usually immaculate hair coated in drying blood. Over the ruckus of Doctor's orders and crying patients, Danica could hear the screams from the woods. It made her blood run cold and her bones shudder.

Snapping herself from the screams of her dreams, Danica broke out into a jog, careful of the saturated floor beneath her feet. The patient was an elderly Japanese woman, perhaps seventy or so.

"Ha...Hachi." The woman whispered over and over again; the surrounding medical staff doing their best to stem the bleeding. Danica eyed the woman's wounds and horror settled in her stomach.

"Are," Danica began, her eyes wide. "Are those claw marks?" Shredded. The woman's stomach was completely torn apart; long, lacerated gashes seeped blood and entrails. This woman wasn't going to survive.

"No, there was an air raid on the South of the island. The Jap bastards are starting to bomb their own." Doctor Pavlov replied, anger lacing his words. So he did have compassion.

"Hachiman…" The woman repeated and reached for Danica's hand. Left redundant, Danica knelt beside the dying woman whilst Pavlov continued to try stitch her back together. It was useless. He knew that. Danica knew that. Even the woman seemed to understand she was dying. "Hachiman." The woman searched Danica's eyes, mahogany meeting seafoam in a desperate last resort.

"Hachiman? What does it mean?" Danica pressed quietly. This wasn't the result of an air raid. This was a massacre. Stone cold murder. "I don't understand." Danica whispered, the light began to fade from the woman's eyes, the red of her irises becoming that bit duller.

"Hachiman."

"It's no good, she's gone." Pavlov admitted quietly, as if ashamed he couldn't save her. "Nurse Morozova, she's gone." Pavlov stared at Danica; her usually olive skin was wane and drained of colour. She still had hold of the woman's hand, it clasped to her chest between both her hands. "Danica."

"Hm?"

"Danica, she's gone." Pavlov said as he lay a bloodied hand on her shoulder. "The damage was too extensive, there was nothing more we could do." Silence. "I'm sorry, Danica. We done our best." A verbal armistice.

"I," Danica began, wiping her eyes with her shoulder. "I understand. Thank you, Doctor Pavlov." Pavlov nodded in understanding. War was hard. Cruel. Not only for the soldiers on the front lines, but for everyday folk too; they were collateral damage, inconsequential loss. Would they raise cenotaphs for the fallen folk? Would they commemorate their bravery in the face of all of this? He took one last look at the woman on the bed, her wrinkled lips ajar as her dying words lingered in the air.

No, they probably wouldn't.

By the time Danica left the hospital, the Aniva Lighthouse was lit. The beacon revolved around, and around; the beam of light ran across the land like the hand of a mother soothing a child. Tonight, Sakhalin Island came under attack. Danica knew it was no air raid that killed those people. They were murdered, hunted down like sport, left for carrion.

She was drenched head to toe in blood. The fluid left a coppery wash on her skin; her hair looked rusted, clumps of would-be iron clinging to her curls. The light of her little cabin was a pinhole in the darkness, a single ray of gold amidst the shadows of the woods.

No smoke lingered in the air like after an air-raid. Usually, pillars of thick smog towered over the island, the plumes billowing in the wind. The same wind would carry ash across the land, it settling in flurries, a grey snowstorm. Nothing. Danica couldn't smell a thing. No smoke, nothing.

Upon entering the cabin Ruslan immediately gasped.

"Pchelka," Ruslan gaped at Danica, his periwinkle eyes as wide as serving plates. "Pchelka, what happened? Are you alright? You're not hurt are you?" Ruslan held her at arm's length eyeing any sign of injury. Danica, somewhat dazed, shook her head.

"Air-raid on the South of the island." Lies. Even saying the words left a sour tang in her mouth. "They were innocent. They weren't soldiers-"

"Shhhh shhh it's ok, Pchelka. It's all over now, you're safe." Ruslan held her like a crying babe; he tucked her into his chest, his arms hanging in boughs around her, solid muscle encapsulating her. But it didn't soothe her aching heart nor did it stop the bile from biting at the back of her throat. He didn't care, he just wanted her to stop crying.

"I'm going to go get a bath." Danica croaked, peeling herself away from Ruslan. He looked over her once more; tiny bronze trails ran down her cheeks where the tears had fought their way through the blood. Again, he looked at her like an injured lamb for the taking.

"Would you like me to join you? We could-"

"No thanks." Danica edged away from the fingers that traipsed around the collar of her crusted uniform. "I just want to get a bath and go to bed. But thank you." Danica offered up a weak smile, putting on her best impression of a damsel in distress.

"But just think, we could soak in the warm water," Ruslan purred, snaking an arm around her waist, his lips expertly finding the curve of her neck. The gesture would have once brought tingles to her loins and make her stomach leap with excitement. Now it made her ill. "Let all those tight muscles unwind." Ruslan kissed upwards, his teeth grazing the lobe of her ear whilst his hands began to gather up the hem of her dress.

"Ruslan." Danica protested, she leaning away from his adventuring lips.

"Come now, Pchelka. Don't be such a spoil sport." Ruslan's hands found the rim of her stockings, his skin callous against her thighs.

"Ruslan I said no!" Danica shoved him away roughly; she stood her ground and eyed him down. She would not falter. "Do you not understand, no? I am covered in someone else's blood and all you can think about is getting into my pants?"

Danica watched him closely, the way he leant against the dinner table and ran a hand through his hair. He was pissed. Royally so. The half eaten chicken caught her eye. "You know? You can be such an inconsiderate bastard, sometimes."

"Danica." A red flag. He never said her name.

"Go fuck yourself Ruslan." Danica turned swiftly, grabbing her bag before heading towards the front door. "Because believe me, that'll be the only action you'll be getting for a while."


	5. четыре - chyetirye - 4

Chapter 4

The shower room of the hospital was more like the gas chambers of the Nazis than washroom. The air was thick with heavy steam that coated Danica's lungs and made her gasp. Every breath became laboured and coated her throat with a slick mucus. Curled up like a fetus, Danica felt hidden amidst the steam, it was a small comfort.

No matter how hard she scrubbed her skin, she could still feel blood on her, taunting her that she would never be clean. She would always have blood on her hands. Innocent blood. Head in her arms, Danica stifled the urge to cry; despite the warmth of the shower her body felt heavy and cold. Her skin no longer relished the downpour from the overhead shower; her skin was numb, unreceptive.

The tiles that previously gleamed in the luminescent lights were now splattered with copperish eddies and swirls. The blood on her body had washed away easily enough; but no amount of soap could relinquish the guilt that burdened her heart. And no amount of scalding water could erase the memory of the elderly woman.

Hachiman.

She didn't understand. What did it mean? Of what significance did the word hold? She would probably never know. A slamming door broke her thoughts. The sound reverberated around the shower room; with no stalls, the steam was her sole protection, like a cloak of invisibility Danica remained unnoticed by the intruder.

"Did you hear about that Air-raid on the South? Bastards, bombing their own people." The voice called out. Danica didn't reply, instead she listened.

"I heard it was a naval strike that ventured out from Hokkaido." A second voice replied. The sound of running water reached her ears; she didn't recognise the voices, most likely new recruits from the mainland. She huddled herself closer to the wall, her ears keen for any tidbits of information she was unknowingly thrown.

"Probably a cover up anyway, you know what those Japs are like. Sneaky bastards, more than likely using their own as a decoy." Danica drew a map in her mind; the most northern island of Japan wasn't far, practically a stone's throw from the furthest southern point of Sakhalin. A naval strike was plausible, it just didn't explain the claw marks she saw.

A snort. "Bastards? More like animals you mean? They probably still offer blood sacrifices." The sound of laughter riled her numb body into existence. She had to find out what happened. Any information she retrieved from the hospital would be propaganda, unreliable and a waste of effort.

She needed to go the source of chaos, the heart of the terror.

The outdoors always calmed Danica. Despite the rucksack that made her shoulders cry out and back quiver, the outdoors felt like home. The tall fir trees that lined the path were her siblings and the seabirds that cried over head were distant cousins that visited from time to time.

The road between Aniva and Taranay was littered with army patrols; soldiers clad with knives that could disembowel a man in seconds. The Russian Army were as ferocious as the bears that lined their coats and warmed their heads. But just like the bears, the soldiers could be vicious and unpredictable.

On the other hand, the bears did not taunt the Japanese people for sport. They did not mock them by pulling the sides of their eyes on a slant; nor did they rape and pillage the villages of innocent people for the sake of a bet, then blame the horrors of war.

Danica would take the bears over the army any day.

Away from barbed wire perimeters and automatic rifles, the people of Sakhalin Island led a simple life. By simple, Danica meant poverty stricken. Below the belt of the allied forces border, the Japanese people barely existed let alone lived. Away from the mainland of Japan, the Japanese people were vermin, dirt beneath the iron-toed boot of Russia, left to dwindle into extinction.

But the Japanese people were resilient. Like wildflowers they grew in the places people expected them to wither and die. Their roots clung to the ground, digging deep beneath the mantle of the earth. Danica had met a variety of wildflowers in her time on Sakhalin - and she loved every single one.

A nearby tree indicated she had reached her destination; etched into the bark of a pine tree, Danica made out the familiar symbol.

日本. Nihon. Japan.

She was still unaccustomed to the indigenous language of Japan, yet at the same time it was familiar to her. Her own language was written with peculiar symbols, strange markings that were difficult to navigate. The skill that had been used to carve the lines into the tree was impeccable. The person was clearly a master of their former trade - a carpenter perhaps.

Beyond the treeline, a tower of smoke was visible, not the heavy cloud of battle smog, it was the type of smoke that indicated a gathering. The tiny village was more a myriad of people rather than fortified town; small shanty shacks, made of salvaged wood circled the clearing. At a closer look, the tower of smoke was in fact numerous plumes; each one faint apart, yet strong together - just like the people.

"Hoshi-san! Hoshi-san!" A child called, their voiced laced with excitement. Danica instantly dropped to her knees, a wide grin breaking out onto her lips. In an instant the child was in her arms, their face buried deep in the crook of her neck. "Hoshi-san…" The child began to weep.

"Why are you crying, Kazuo? What's wrong?" Danica crooned softly, she stroked the Kazuo's back and cringed. Beneath the palms of her hands, she could feel every vertebrae and every rib. The child was no more than a bag of bones laced in skin.

"Okaa-san," Mother. Kazuo sniffled, the tears on his cheek left trails on his muddy skin, tiny tributaries cascading down his face. "Okaa-san." He repeated, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Danica understood.

With the nod of her head Kazuo led her to one of the shanty shacks, barely any smoke snaked from the chimney, merely faint wisps of grey spouted from the roof. Closing the door behind her Danica's stomach instantly fell towards her feet. Kazuo's mother was bedridden, and by bedridden, she was confined to a thinly woven tatami mat and shrouded with a paper thin blanket.

"Okaa-san." Kazuo knelt beside his mother, at the sound of her name the woman croaked softly and cracked open an eyelid. She was clinging to life desperately. And not just for herself.

A baby crying shook Danica from her momentary stupor. Unloading the rucksack from her back, Danica swept the baby into her arms. "Hello there, myshka." Little mouse. Swaddled in scraps of fabric, the baby was surprisingly clean and warm, albeit a bit underweight, the baby looked moderately healthy. "Are you crying because you're hungry hm?" Danica cooed, rocking the baby until their cries subsided.

Between them, Danica and Kazuo managed to gather a hearty pile of dry firewood and a pot of fresh water. The baby lay sleeping, contently strapped to Danica's back. Before long the shack was warm and the smell of stew bubbled about the room; the Russian army had their uses, rations and food provisions being one of them.

"Ki o tsukete." Be careful. Danica ordered in broken japanese, keeping an eye on Kazuo who was desperately trying to slurp his stew without melting his mouth off. His mother, now propped up and wrapped in a spare blanket Danica had brought, clung to Danica's wrist, tears beginning to form around her dark eyes.

"Arigatou," Thank you. The woman sobbed, she was wafer thin, any sustinents she acquired clearly was spent on her children. A mother's love knew no bounds. "Arigatou." Danica smiled and nodded, sometimes the language barrier wasn't an issue; a smile or a kind hand was universally understood and cherished.

Using what medical supplies she brought, Danica done her rounds in the small village. The main issue was malnutrition. It was dyer. The people were wasting away and it appeared the people of Sakhalin island were blissfully unaware.

Or they just didn't care.


	6. пять - pyat - 5

The fire of the shanty shack lit up the inside, brilliant oranges and reds that made the metal roof of shack glow, molten almost. As entrancing as the flames were, Danica couldn't help but let her mind wander, back to the wards of the hospital where the screams of the dying still echoed in her ears and the blood of the innocent still clung to her pores.

Even now she couldn't escape the colour red. It haunted her, stalked her relentlessly. Whilst the fire should have warmed her weary bones, the flames simply hissed and spat at her, as though she was not welcome there. These people were not her own. They weren't Russians. Their veins didn't sing songs of iron and snow; in fact she didn't know what their tales were, what secrets their families held. Surely they did not differ much from her own?

Between her palms, lay a reminder of why she was here. She needed to know why those people were murdered. Why their bodies now probably lay at the bottom of a mass grave, given burial rites that weren't their own. Hachiman lay on the tip of her lips, the word almost taboo. How would she begin to explain the horrors that came with the word, the heaviness that clung to every syllable.

"Hoshi-san, sore wa nan desu ka?" What's that? Tearing her gaze from the fire, Danica met Kazuo's Mother's gaze. It was an intense gaze. One that reminded her of her own mother's gaze; it was an expression that demanded an answer. Like child storing a stolen biscuit, Danica closed her palm tighter, instinctively.

"So," Danica began. "Sore wa-"

Kazuo's mother smiled, the apples of her cheeks were gaunt, barely visible, hardly the image of happiness. But still she smiled.

"So-re wa." Kazuo's mother prompted, slowing her words and accentuating the syllables.

"Sore wa." Danica repeated, testing how the foreign words tasted on her tongue.

"Nan desu ka?"

"Nan desu ka?" Danica repeated.

"Sore wa nan desu ka?" Kasuo's Mother said the full phrase, adjusting her speed so Danica could hear the rise and fall of her tones.

"Sore wa nan desu ka?" Danica repeated in full, smiling when the sentence rolled off of her tongue in one fluid motion. Kazuo's mother chuckled weakly and applauded, folding her hands in lap afterwards. "But what does it mean?" Danica questioned, her cheeks pricking with faint embarrassment.

Kazuo's mother tilted her head in graceful thought, the cogs of her mind attempting to decipher the best way to explain. She watched Danica carefully. This woman, who was not one of their own but was more like family in these past weeks then some of her own flesh and blood. The kami had clearly sent her to them for a reason.

Using her finger, Kazuo's mother drew a question mark in the dirt, her motions fluid and precise. She had drawn the symbol many a time back in the classroom; oh how things differed from their little apartment back in Sapporo. She pointed to the question mark then Danica's closed palm.

Danica mouth dried.

"Sore wa nan desu ka?" Kazuo's mother repeated. She was accustomed to children smuggling contraband into her classroom. Danica was no different, a child caught up in the conflicts of war and left to fend for herself. And here she was, in the woods, armed with a medical kit, sheer determination and overflowing compassion.

Danica tore her eyes away and eyed the chunk of metal in her palm. It wasn't particularly appealing. The metal was worn after the wearer had seemingly palmed it over the decades. It was made of three comma like symbols, each one aligned in sync. A continuous pattern of symmetry.

At a quick glance, the amulet was just a hunk of scrap metal. Inconsequential. But the dying woman had clung to it, almost prayed it to; like a genie housed in a lamp, it was her lucky charm. Danica flattened out her palm, the metal instantly glinting in the firelight. It almost seemed alive, awake.

Kazuo's mother's eyes widened, they glued to her hand. With a sudden wave of energy she rambled off in Japanese too colloquial for Danica to even begin deciphering. One word however stood out amidst the rest.

Hachiman.

"Hachiman? What's Hachiman? Is this a Hachiman?" Danica pleaded, shuffling closer. "What is Hachiman? Please? Is it a person? Did Hachiman hurt those people?"

Kazuo's mother's voice croaked, her voice barely able to form the words she craved to share. She was exhausted. Danica, admitting defeat, placed the charm back into her pocket and attempted to soothe Kazuo's mother who was almost crying, with sadness or joy, she was unsure.

Finally asleep Danica glanced over the family for a final time. They were huddled together, the baby in between Kazuo and his mother. Tossing one final log on the fire Danica took her leave; she would be back with supplies in the next week or so, she just hoped they would be ok until then.

The night was black. Away from the crowds and curfews, the stars played,frolicking without want or care. The outpost was a dilapidated structure, barely standing; the odds were that the dust was more fortified that the building beams. Either way, it was home.

Aside from the occasional animal call, the woods were silent; Danica could feel every shift in wind and every rustle of leaves. It took her back home, to a land of superstition and family elders that you did not dare speak out against. They were a pack, led by an alpha - her sister. Danica ignored the chill that ran down her spine and disregarded the pins and needles that immobilised her hands. She wasn't in Russia anymore. She had a duty to attend to, just not the one her sister expected her to.

Shaking off the layers of dust Danica tended to the outpost shack; it didn't take long for her to start a fire and warm her frozen toes. Her head was cloudy. Foggy with thoughts she could not get rid of; they were ingrained in her, as much a part of her as the colour of her eyes or the curls that bounced around her back. She couldn't ignore it when it came calling, sweet lures of adventure that sang siren songs.

Exhaustion or excitement, she welcomed the blackness of sleep.

In her dreams, Danica wore skin that was not her own. Skin that was covered in thick fur that warmed against the bitter breezes of the night. Her hands, once dainty were replaced by paws, strong and lined with razor like claws. She was a powerful machine of nature's own creation.

The grass, ladened with evening dew, was chilly beneath the pads of her paws. The air was laced with an unfamiliar tang. Alluring and powerful. Exotic and familiar. She inhaled deeply, the scent filling her lungs and sticking to the back of her throat. Instinctively her mouth watered, the saliva swishing in between rows of fangs ready to gnash and maul if needed.

She walked of her own accord, strong strides that covered great distances in moments. Other animals bowed before her. Some out of respect, they knew their place in the ecosystem. As did she. The top. That was where she belonged. Evolution had been kind, generous. Beside a nearby stream, Danica gazed at her body. A great bear stared back, black eyes that could devour souls and flesh alike. She drank up. The water was icy and dribbled down her jowls; she wrinkled her nose - that smell.

It was exquisite.

Danica followed her nose, the receptors in her nasal passages dancing wildly with excitement. She was in for a treat. She had never smelled such a scent before; it belonged to a different world, aged and defined. It was alluring. Powerful. Just like her.

When her nose sought out the cause of scent, her eyes narrowed and a long huff escaped past her jowls. A man? A woman? Long ebony hair tumbled from their scalp and clung to their skin, a mixture of blood and mud strewn throughout their locks. She edged closer, her body geared and ready to strike. With her paw poised Danica stood on her hind legs and roared, the ground quivered and the air thinned.

Then they opened their eyes.


	7. шесть - shest - 6

_Red. Even in her dreams she couldn't escape it. The person stared up at her, their eyes burning as brightly as the approaching dawn; they did not blink, and their gaze did not falter from her gargantuan form. They did not fear her. They did not fear death. Instead they stared at her, like she was no more than a cub sporting borrowed fangs and returnable claws._ _Danica stood back on all fours, her lack of stature by no means any less intimidating. She sniffed the air, their scent clinging to her whiskers and coating her tongue. They were bleeding. Excessively so. Her beady eyes took in their appearance. The person stared back at her, their eyes glowing almost rhythmically; they were either too weak to care or had crossed paths with death prior to now. Danica huffed at their lack of response, the air immediately clouding in front of her then dispersing in the breeze._ _They would probably die out here. Alone. The temperature was dropping by the minute and the snow was falling at an extraordinary pace. Danger lurked out in the woods, danger that did not need claws or fangs to kill. Danger that was not fuelled by bloodlust or the want to survive; nature knew no biases, no good or evil. Nature took what it wanted and did not apologise afterwards._ _"Okiru jikan desuyo." It's time to wake up. The person said, their voice surprisingly smooth despite their battered state._ _Danica huffed again, rocking backwards and forward on her paws; did he not realise he was talking to a wild animal? In Japanese at that? He was likely delirious from blood loss; hallucinating the faces of his loved ones. He reached out a hand, his skin painted crimson. She watched as droplets of ruby fell into the snow, the beads of white devouring the blood in an instant._ _She sniffed at his extended hand. Two lots of blood laced his skin. One was foul smelling, unearthly - evil. Danica backed away. She didn't like it. Not one bit. They reeked of it. The person did not recoil their hand, it was an offering. An armistice. Snow crunched beneath her paws, they waited patiently, eyeing her as she edged forward them until her muzzle was breathes away from their fingers._ _"Okiru jikan desuyo." It's time to wake up. They repeated, a ghost of smile cracking onto their bloodied lips whilst a low rumble of a laugh erupted in their chest. "Watashi wa doko e mo ikanai wa." I'm not going anywhere._ _The moment their fingers poked her nose, Danica woke up._

Danica was met by the embers of the fire, the remnant coals resembling dying stars. Ridges from the carpet engrained her cheek where she had fallen asleep – she hadn't even made it to the bed. She rubbed her eyes, pushing the palms of her hands into her sockets as the phosphenes began to waltz. Pastels merged with neons and monotones, every shade dancing with the next.

And there it was again: Red. Glowing rubies that had followed her from her dreams; eyes unlike any she had seen before, even awake she could see them as clear as day. They had shone so brightly amidst the snow, just like the blood that covered their body and hands. They couldn't have been too far from the cabin, she hadn't walked too far in her dreams. She needed answers. Hachiman, the attack, everything played in her mind like a film on loop.

Outside, the snow whipped and lashed at the scurvy panes of glass; in between flurries the wind howled, the screeches chilling her warmed digits instantly. It was still dark, she couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours. Still, her neck ached and the thought of trudging through the storm made her already tired muscles weep prematurely. Danica knew she would probably regret this. She knew that whatever lay out in that storm was going to throw a spanner in the works.

"Yob." Fuck. She scowled and grabbed her boots.

Danica instantly regretted her decision. The wind bit her cheeks and the snow clung to her lashes forming a barricade of hail. The storm had caused the snow to build up to her knees, stray clumps falling into her boots and squelching between her toes.

"Mudak." Motherfucker. Danica cursed, attempting to pull her coat closer around her and savour the dying warmth from the fire. If this person wasn't dead already she was going to kill them – that's if she didn't die of hypothermia first or trench foot.

She paused in the clearing, any sign of life had been masked by the storm, even the evergreens that stood proudly wore a coat of white. There was something almost clinical looking about them, fir trees in lab coats, that's what they reminded her of.

A mound of brown caught her eye. There was only one thing that would even dare face the storm head on. A bear. She halted in her tracks, the snow instantly erasing her footsteps as though she was never there. The giant bear akin to the one in her dreams stared at her through the bleat; its beady orbs stared back at her, devoid.

"Misha!" Danica called out, her voice instantly carried by the wind. But the bear heard her. It knew its name. "Misha, over here!"

The bear trundled through the storm, its giant paws smushing the growth of snow with considerable ease. White dotted its fur; despite its stature, the bear blended into wind, it was a fanged breeze and clawed gust.

"Misha," Danica smiled, running a heavily gloved hand over the bear's head; her hand was so tiny in comparison to his paws - her paws. "I need your help, Misha."

The bear looked up at her, like a dog idolising its master, except Danica was not his master - they were equals. Kindred spirits of sorts. The bear knew what she wanted. She wanted to save another life. She was risking her own in save of another, again.

Misha huffed his agreement and accompanied Danica towards the tree. Towards the stranger he did not like the smell of. At the sight of him, Danica almost un-holstered the pistol hidden beneath her coat. Every fibre of her being told her to turn around and run, that the stranger there would be the death of her.

Russian, or just plain stubborn, Danica ignored the twist in her gut and the fleeting feeling in her feet. Instead she huddled beside them and felt for a pulse in their neck.

Thump…………Thump…………Thump

Faint. But alive nonetheless. They were a live snowman, their form barely decipherable from the growing flurries. Working fast, Danica unpacked and folded stretcher from her backpack.

Partially frozen the person was stiff to the touch, as if rigamortis had already lay claim to their body. Limb by limb, Danica folded and unfolded their joints, carefully laying them onto the stretcher before rooting through her backpack for a blanket. Danica worked quickly and efficiently. It wasn't her first rodeo. Misha grunted as if in warning; the storm was worsening by the second. The storm would consume them whole; in one large bite, they would be gone.

"Misha, you know where to go." Danica ordered, fastening the harness around the oversized sleigh dog. The bear grunted again in acknowledgement. One step at a time, Misha navigated through the snow, the stretcher gliding over the top effortlessly. Danica trundled on behind, being sure to keep pace. Her tiny human steps were nothing in comparison to the bear. Oh how she missed the strides of her dreams. Long, powerful strides. Not the clumsy, overcalculated steps of her human legs. Damn anatomy.

Like the Aniva Lighthouse, the outpost cabin was a beacon. Sanctuary. Misha halted at the front door, the cabin was no place for a bear. He had seen how the humans mounted the walls with the skin of his brothers and sisters. Fur plastered from floor to ceiling. It made his claws itch for a fight. Danica was different from the other humans. She was one of his own. Family.

"Thank you, Misha." Danica ruffled the bear's head, unclipping the harness as she went. "Now go, go back to your cave until the storm passes. And avoid the roads, soldiers are patrolling." Those humans. He would happily sink his claws into those ingrates. Filthy, horrible humans.

The bear disappeared into the storm once more, the wind almost carrying him where he pleased. Nudging the door open, Danica dragged the stretcher inside, immediately battling to put the door back on the latch.

"Mudak." Motherfucker. Danica hissed at the door, kicking it when the latch finally fell into place. Deadbolt on, Danica turned back to the stretcher, her stomach dropping at the task ahead of her. If they survived the night, the person had one stubborn guardian angel.

She shrugged off her backpack and coat and stared at the wound that was oozing into the blanket. So much blood. It was carnage. How this person was still alive was beyond her. "You must be one tough cookie, or just one stubborn ass." Danica muttered, in part to herself.

She cleaned her hands and began attempting to reverse the damage. Tissue, muscle, all of it, shredded. Clawed. Just like the woman in the hospital. Amongst the gore, a single claw caught her eye. It was no cat claw or even that of a bear. The dark nail sat in the palm of her hand, it reaching fingertip to palm. Enormous. Deadly. "What the fuck?" The claw had ripped them open as easily as a tin opener.

Still, Danica pushed on. Stitch after stitch. Bandage after bandage. With the final knot of the suture sitting neatly at the end of the wound, Danica admired her handiwork. The cabin had become a battlefield of medical supplies; stray needles littered the flood whilst a mountain of bloodied gauze and strips of stray shirt lay scattered on the floor. A testament to their survival.

If they survived the night.


	8. семь - syem - 7

It felt like he had fallen from the heavens and crashed into the hard plains of the earth. Like his body had obliterated mountains on impact and left wide chasms where lush fields once existed. He had been so cold. So so cold. No warmth. Not even a single flame to bend to his will. Just infernal cold and ice.

He hated the cold. He longed for the tropical islands of Japan, where white sand shifted between his toes and the sun kissed his skin. Instead, all he felt was warm. A pause. He felt warm. Not the blasted snow that had began to fall around him. Warmth. Seductive heat that enraptured his entire body, tip to toe. He had to be dead. Izanami had to have sent a shinigami to retrieve him.

He felt it again. Luxurious warmth that caressed his skin in gentle strokes. He commanded his eyes to open, to seek out the source. One lid. Then two. Immediately, dancing flames of orange and yellow greeted his gaze; beautiful fire that seemed to leap and rejoice at his awakening. It called to him. Beckoned him. Closer. It called. Come closer. The flames crooned. He attempted to lift his hand, his fingers reaching out towards the flames.

"Whoa there, easy does it now." A hand grasped his wrist, their touch icy. Was this Death? Had she come for him? "I know you're cold like, but attempting to barbecue yourself won't do you any good." The voice scolded him and tucked his arm back by his side.

Danica sat beside the person, their eyelids barely betraying a sliver of charcoal irises beneath. Using a clean cloth, she wiped away the blood and grime from their face, revealing surprisingly unscathed skin. They were so pale and fragile. Yet it didn't stop them from attempting to shake off her grasp. Definitely stubborn. And male.

"Sir, please stop struggling. I need you to lie still. You've been gravely injured." Danica began, pushing their hand back down once again. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Sir, please stop." Her patience was wearing thin.

"Kodomo atsukai shinaide." Stop treating me like a child. The male ordered, his voice raspy from lack of use. Danica sighed and sat back on her heels; despite his state Danica knew he was a force to be reckoned with. Even half dead, he made her skin crawl and her hair stand to attention. His eyes did not glow red like in her dreams, instead, groggy eyes stared up at her, eyes that were more like a cloudy night than bright and clear.

"If you're going to be difficult then you leave me with no choice." Danica replied, the firelight casting a devilish twinkle in her sea-grey eyes; dangerous waters that could consume at will and for sport. Danica reached into her medical bag and pulled out a clean syringe and a vile of liquid; in the firelight the bottle resembled liquid flame, the copper glass glimmering as the liquid sloshed about. When the liquid reached the hypodermic marker, Danica flicked the syringe and squeezed until the needle cried stray tears.

"Īe." No. The man protested, again, raising his hand in attempt to swat her hand away. "Īe." No. Danica held down his wrist with one hand, the other holding the syringe as she searched for a visible vein in his forearm. A fat, juicy one waved at her from beneath his skin, it bulged from the crease of his arm - ripe for the picking.

"Oyasuminasai." Goodnight. Danica crooned, the tip of the needle piercing his skin with the utmost proficiency. The level of the needle depleted and the room began to wobble. The stranger tried to fight the creeping blackness that began to blot his vision; the splodges grew larger and less sporadic. His body became heavy, and the warmth from the fire beckoned him to sleep.

Damn foreign witch.

Danica sat in her makeshift bed; an armchair that had seen better days and an overturned box, both perched beside the fire. Her backed ached, but at least she was warm and had all of her existing digits. The stranger had been out for a few days; in part his sleep was medically induced, the rest was all him.

He did not whimper for friends that had passed before him, like she had seen some soldiers do. Nor did he cry out as if bombs fell from the sky in organised waves. He remained silent. At times she checked for a pulse in case he had passed in the night. Still it beated steady, stronger with each passing day.

His breathes were less laboured, and his skin had claimed back some colour. He was of a pallid stature. Skin that resembled porcelain in the firelight. He was not a handsome man. Beautiful perhaps, for he possessed lashes that would betray his gender. Men and their damn eyelashes.

Danica stretched, very much a cat sunning itself. An ungrateful sound passed her lips, it akin to sounds one would make in the bedroom. Mid-stretch, she felt it. An ancient darkness. Instinctively she palmed the knife at her thigh, silent reassurance. No Baba Yaga came knocking at the cabin door, and no boogeyman crawled from beneath the strangers bed - getting him in was a herculean task on its own, nevermind fighting off bedtime stories.

Instead she was met by a dark stare. The strangers eyes pinned her to the chair. In the firelight she swore she saw a glisten of red. The knife at her palm urged her to take it. She didn't. She stared the stranger down, her own eyes glimmering with unspoken promises.

"Ohayōgozaimasu." Danica said, her hand still ghosting the knife at her thigh. The stranger didn't reply. He just stared back. His eyes were black; like ink that could devour worlds and stars should they spill over. "Water? Uh mi-," Danica stumbled over her Japanese, or lack thereof. "Mizu?"

She was met by a stalemate gaze. It wasn't blank. Quite the opposite. It was calculated and thorough. He was deducing her. Slowly, Danica removed the blanket from her lap; no sudden movements, that was her aim. She didn't want to startle the man, and the last thing she needed was him retaliating or lashing out.

"Fine then, no water. Just don't start crying when I have to hook you up to an IV because you're dehydrated." Danica muttered, making her way to the small store cupboard. If she were to tolerate the deafening silence she was going to need coffee. Or something stronger.

She felt his eyes burn holes in her back. They lingered on her form. It wasn't a stare that was akin to other men's; how Ruslan would undress her with those periwinkle eyes of his. This man was sizing her up as an opponent or possible alliance. He was merely undecided.

"If you're offering a drink, I'd love a cup of tea if you have some." Mid coffee search Danics froze. "I'd rather not have any more injections if I can help it." Perfect russian. Danica swivelled on her heels, her mouth involuntarily ajar.

"You speak-" She began.

"I do." The stranger retorted, a quiet ember of sarcasm edging his words. Oh, he was a smartass. "Did you expect me to speak in broken syntax?" A sly jab.

"You know, there's no need for that." Danica narrowed her eyes, her brows furrowing together. "I don't appreciate your tone, yes, my Japanese is somewhat," Danica rolled her hands in circular motion, searching for the correct word.

"Dyer?" The stranger answered for her.

"You know what? If you're so fucking clever, why don't you go fuck yourself? Hm?" Danica seethed. "Asshole." Now she really needed something stronger than coffee. Perhaps he wanted another nightcap of anaesthesia.

"Are the women of your land supposed to sport such foul language?"

"Are the people of your land supposed to be so impertinent to the person who saved their life?" Danica shot back, her tongue sharp and ready for another retort. Silence.

"You're right. I'm being rude." The man replied, bowing his head in apology. "Who exactly do I owe my life to?" He looked around the room, waiting for another person to pop out, to attack him like-

"Me. I saved your smartass life." Danica leaned back against the cupboard, palms resting on the edge. "You owe your life to me."

"You? You couldn't have-" He paused, dark brows knitting together as if whatever hold the anaesthetic had on his mind, began to unfurl, one memory at a time.

"You're welcome, by the way." Danica watched how the man attempted to piece together the events of the past few days. "I could have just let you freeze, but I didn't. I went out into that shitshow, and brought you back." The storm outside raged on at the mention of its name, as if it needed to confirm its strength and deadliness.

He eyed her frame. Average height and build. But the way she palmed the cupboard and angled her stance, she was no stranger to fending for herself. It still didn't explain how she dragged his dead weight through a snowstorm.

"I had help," Danica offered, as if she could see the calculations rushing around his head. "in case you were wondering."

"And how exactly should I address my saviour?" Quiet bite laced his words. Did he expect her to charge payment? Or barter his freedom?

"Saviour?" Danica let a loud, uncouth laugh, her head rolling back. " I like you more than I did before. Saviour. That's good." She wiped the corner of her eye with her pinky finger, all too aware of his eyes on her. "For the record, you can call me Danica. And what should I call you?"

"Other than profanities?"

Danica arched a brow. The stranger held up his palms in surrender.

"Other than profanities, you can call me Itachi."


	9. восемь - vo-syem - 8

"Itachi, hm? Does it mean anything?" Danica questioned, any colour he seemed to have gained back in the past few days immediately drained from his cheeks. "What? Does it mean, shit, or something?"

Itachi focused on his linked fingers, they seemingly more interesting than her question. "Oh come on now, don't most names in your language have a meaning? Or was your Mother that cruel that she gave you a horrific name?"

"Itachi, means weasel." Itachi answered, reluctantly looking up from his fingers. "I go by other names, but Itachi is the one I've used for a while now."

"Other names? What sort of names?" Instinct or reflex, Danica brushed her hand over the amulet beneath her shirt. It could have been a trick of the mind, but the metal on her skin felt warm, as though it was calling out to something. Or someone.

"Old names. The type mountains whisper about, and remember regardless of the time that passes." Itachi's eyes glazed over and the darkness that slumbered there, rumbled ever so briefly. Danica felt it though. The tremble in the ground and the stir in the air; it was an awakening.

"Hachiman." Danica answered, her hand grasping the amulet. Itachi's head snapped up as that ancient power seemed to recognise its name.

"What do you know about Hachiman?" Itachi asked, his words careful, calculated. He did not divulge much, if anything. She was still none the wiser as to whether it was a person, or an object.

Danica pushed herself off of the cupboard and strode over to his bedside; from the comforts of her shirt she pulled out the amulet. "All's I know, is that a dying woman, cut to shreds, pressed this into my hands and repeated that name as she died." Flashes of crimson stained her eyes, so much blood and carnage. "So if you know anything about this Hachiman, I need you to tell me, right now."

Itachi stared at the necklace. It had been a very long time since he had seen that symbol. Even longer since he had heard of a human using it. "What happened to her?" The words barely made it past his lips. He had an idea what had happened. A very good idea.

"Pretty much the same as whatever happened to you. Except she wasn't so lucky." Danica stared him down, her seafoam eyes stirring. She had to know. Needed to know. She couldn't let that type of carnage happen again. "What is Hachiman? Are you it? Him? Are you responsible for all those-"

"No." Itachi cut her off. Danica jumped back, the knife at her thigh instantly occupying her hand. His eyes. His eyes burned red, just like in her dreams. Bright vermillion that could melt metal in an instant. "I did no such thing."

"Then what did? And what is Hachiman?" Danica repeated, her grip on the knife tightening in response. "Answer me!" Itachi stared up at her, those rubicund eyes of his clashing with her own. Neither was going to back down. Neither was going to let these atrocities slide.

"I am Hachiman." Itachi replied, swift and to the point. The pain in Danica's chest did not ease, she held the knife steadfast and poised - an indication for him to continue. "You might want to sit down for this." He indicated to the stool that now lay redundant beside the bed.

"I'm fine here." Danica replied curtly. The red died from Itachi's eyes, his entire demeanor deflating.

"Please? I'm sorry for being short with you. I've been nothing but rude to you since I woke up and for that," He paused, his eyes two chasms of starlight. "I'm sorry." Sincerity. It was foreign to her, that sentiment coming out of a man's mouth. "Please?"

"Eurgh, fine. Don't get all puppy dog eyed with me." Danica sighed, sliding the knife back into the holster. "Is tea ok or will I need something stronger?"

"Tea is fine. But just in case, I'd get the bottle of vodka you were hiding behind the pickles."

"Ok, let me get this straight," Danica said, the nearly empty vodka bottle sloshing about in her hand. "you are Hachiman." A nod. "And Hachiman is the Japanese god of war." Another nod. "And you have come here because the woman who died in my arms, called your name."

"That is correct." Itachi replied, the tea in his hands had gone cold, he didn't have the heart to tell her it was awful. "I have come to protect my country and those in it."

"But this isn't Japan." Danica retorted, tipping the bottle his way.

"Japan isn't just a singular place. It exists in the heart of every person who calls Japan their home." Danica watched carefully as Itachi stared off into the distance, as though those charcoal eyes of his could see back to the shores of his homeland.

"Can you stop it?" Danica asked, her tone sobering. "That thing that's out there? Can you stop it?" Her knuckles were a sickly shade of white in comparison to the rest of her pallour. Up close he could see the sea swirl in her irises, how many men had drowned in her gaze he wondered.

"What would you care? Surely that thing has done your kind a favour by culling the remaining Japanese." Itachi lay his trap, the noose there and ready.

"My kind?" Danica's brows rose. "Tell me, where were you when your kind were starving to death? Or when your kind were freezing to death? Because I was bringing what spare rations I could get my hands on and I was chopping firewood until my hands blistered and bled." Danica hissed, and Itachi smiled in retaliation.

"Why are you smiling? You think this is funny? That children dying of malnutrition is funny?" She seethed, and Itachi could have sworn the bottle cracked beneath her grip.

"You passed the test." Itachi replied softly, as though she were a child to be soothed. Danica jerked back, stray curls bouncing free from their restraints.

"Test? What test?" Danica spat, her upper lip curled back and teeth bared.

"I had to see if you were worth saving," He paused. "Whether your kind were worth saving."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Silence. Abruptly, Danica pushed off of the stool; she didn't bother to pick it up as she stormed over to the chair beside the fire. "I should have left you in the snow, let your little god friends save your ass." She muttered in between swigs of vodka.

"I've existed for longer than I care to acknowledge, and over the centuries I have seen many kinds of humans. Ones that have slaughtered entire villages because they worshipped a different god than what was considered acceptable. Men, women and children crucified in the ocean." Itachi spoke quietly, as though their screams still echoed in his ears. "I needed to see if your kind had changed." He lifted his gaze to hers. "I needed to see with my own eyes…"

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to pity you?" Danica remarked, her dark brow arched in question. Itachi blinked. When he didn't reply Danica rolled her eyes and took another swig from the bottle in between muttering colourful profanities.

"Does your husband know what you do out here? That you're searching for a monster in the night?" Itachi asked, noting the glint of gold that occupied her ring finger.

"My husband is none of your concern." Danica was irked. She chewed on her lower lip as though to keep her mouth from betraying her thoughts.

"You should get some rest. I doubt you've gotten much over the past few days." Itachi offered, making an attempt to get out the bed.

"One. Don't tell me what to do." Danica instructed as she stood. "And two. Stay in that bed. I didn't nearly kill myself lifting you into it, for you to kill yourself by getting out of it too soon." Within a few steps she was at his side, her spare hand reaching for his wrist.

"Why did you do it?" Itachi asked, allowing her to maneuver him as she pleased. "Why did you come for me?"

"In hindsight I probably should have left you there." Danica muttered whilst monitoring his pulse.

Itachi chuckled. "Yet here we are."

"Indeed. Here we are."


	10. девять - dyev-yat - 9

Danica didn't dream that night. She didn't wear skin that didn't belong to her and she didn't smell colours that travelled on the north-easterly wind. Exhaustion or vodka aided, Danica found herself amidst the arms of sleep, her limbs tangled tightly around her body. She wanted to remain in that embrace forever. Warm and untouched by the world around her.

Usually she would awake first, Ruslan still dozing beside her. His breathes would tickle the back of her neck in steady waves. If it wasn't a knife that prodded her awake it was her husband's lustful intentions. Sometimes she would pretend to be asleep when his hands would begin to wander and he would often desist in his advances. Other times she found herself beneath him, arms pinned above her head and her lips crushed against his. Sometimes against her will.

The memory of unwanted hands on her skin jolted her awake.

"Danica?" Itachi asked, his brows knitted together. "Are you alright?" Danica took a moment to breathe in her surroundings: a bed, a cupboard, a tin bath and a crackling fire.

"You stoked the fire." A statement rather than a question. Danica tore her eyes from the flames to find Itachi staring at her from beside the cupboard, tea cups in hand.

"Hai." Yes. His hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck and his cheeks were no longer bloodless and sallow. "It was dying. So I threw another log on. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I- uh." Danica began, momentary shock setting in.

"I would offer coffee but my tea making skills are much better." Itachi offered, his lips twisting into a quiet smile.

"No, no. Tea is fine. But I'll do it, you shouldn't even be out of bed let alone making tea and stoking fires." Danica scolded, making an attempt to stand.

"I am a war god. I have seen many an injury in my time and none have ever stopped me from making tea or tending to a fire." Itachi straightened himself, squaring off his shoulders and lifting his chin. "Besides," He said. "you have been tending to my wounds and checking my temperature none stop these past few days. The least I can do is offer you a cup of tea and a warm spot to sit by."

Danica felt her cheeks heat. So he had been aware of all the times she measured his temperature and cleaned his wounds. Not that it surprised her; but it was the gratitude in his eyes and the sincerity of his smile that caught her off guard. He wasn't doing this to gain something in return or a bargaining chip. He was honour bound. Much like his brethren who lived and died for their duty.

"And I would also like to apologise for my behavior last night," He murmured, setting the teacups down. Danica shook her head and attempted to speak. "please, allow me to finish." Itachi raised a hand whilst Danica waited, curious. "I set you up to fail last night. I asked leading questions and made presumptions that were cruel and unfair. You were right. You have done more for my people than I have and for that," He paused, and leaned against the cupboard. "I'm grateful. So thank you."

He could have brushed last night off; gave in to masculine pride and dismissed her entirely. Yet here he was. A war god. Apologising. To her.

"Can you stop it? That thing?" Danica asked, her tone grave. "Will you stop it?" Her gaze didn't waver and his grip on the cupboard tightened. Albeit a tad wobbly, Itachi pushed himself off of the cupboard and stood straight, one hand poised on his bandaged torso.

"Yes."

"Do I have your word that you will help me protect the people of this island?"

"Even the Russians?" Danica glared at him, and raised her brows in disbelief. Itachi nodded, his eyes betraying his salty humour. "You have my word. I will help you protect the people of this island. Even the Russians." He murmured the latter, his lips twitching when Danica growled.

"Good. Now I need you to tell me exactly what you saw."

"I'll do one better and I'll show you."

"Show me?" Danica questioned. A swift nod.

"Hai. But first. Tea." Danica was beginning to like this man...god...man-god.

The snow had stopped falling, the remnants of the night before however still lingered on the windows, piled high in mounds. Every now and again the wood would crackle and pop, the flames dancing wildly. Soon she would have leave here, head back to town, go back to work. And to Ruslan.

"What's your husband like?" Itachi asked, he now occupying a spare chair in front of Danica. She lifted her gaze from the fire and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Have you been married long?"

"Ruslan is uh -" Danica began, shifting in her seat. Itachi sipped his tea, a spare blanket draped around his shoulders.

"That great, hm?" Itachi said, the words muffled by the tea cup.

"Ruslan is headstrong. Fiercely patriotic. And-" The landline rang and Danica jumped where she sat, her tea spilling into her lap. "Mudak!" Motherfucker! She hissed, standing up abruptly as the phone continued to make itself known.

"Would you like me to answer that?" Itachi offered, motioning to the phone.

"No, no. I've got it, it's probably Ruslan." Danica shook off the excess tea and made her way over to the phone, casting a sly glance backwards. "I'm surprised you even know what a phone is. You know, being all ancient and shit."

"Like I haven't heard that before." He muttered, rolling his eyes and taking another sip of his tea. Danica chuckled, the sound surprising light and airy. That however, was something he hadn't heard before.

"Allo?" Hello? Danica nestled the receiver under her chin, lodging it against her shoulder.

"Pchelka?" Honey. Ruslan breathed down the phone, relief flooding down the line. "Pchelka, are you ok? They were sending out weather warnings for the storm and I when I didn't hear from you I thought the worst and-"

"Ruslan, breathe." Danica instructed down the phone all too aware of the dark eyes that watched her. "I'm fine. I had to do my rounds here and by the time the storm hit I was all tucked up in bed." A snort from behind.

"What was that? Is someone there?" Ruslan asked, his voice strained with false calm. Danica turned around painfully slow and gestured vulgarly to Itachi.

"No, no, just a stray I picked up in the village." Itachi resisted the urge to snort again and instead opted for a roll of his eyes. Quiet on the phone line.

"Oh that's good, just be careful Pchelka, God knows what that mutt might have and you don't want to end up getting bit by a mangy dog."

Danica couldn't help the grin that crept onto her lips, wicked and devilish. "Oh I've made sure he knows who is boss." Another snort. "Plus, I've made it clear that if he bites, I'll bite back twice as hard." Black clashed with seafoam - a challenge.

"Well, good, but I'd like you home as soon as possible, Klara has been worried about you and there has been another air raid."

"Another air raid?" Danica straightened, her back an arrow ready to be fired. "Where?" Hesitation bled down the line; she could imagine he loved this, holding the information just out of her reach. She could see his periwinkle eyes glisten with power.

"Not far from the outpost, they didn't manage to get anyone to the hospital though because of the storm." Danica almost dropped the phone.

"I um, I'm gonna have to call you back. I'll be home as soon as the snow melts." Danica uttered, the words barely hitting the air.

"Just be careful Pchelka. I love you."

Danica hung up the phone.

"Are you alright?" Itachi finally spoke, having made his way over to her; she didn't even see him move - like shadows in the night, completely undetectable. Danica stared up at him, he standing beside her, not over her like Ruslan often did.

"There was another attack during the storm." Quiet contemplation. Danica chewed the inside of her lip, her teeth threatening to pierce the fleshy gum and draw blood.

"I think it's time I showed you what we're up against." We. Not I.

They were equal in this shitshow of a circus.


	11. десять - dyes-yat - 10

Danica had only seen one or two moving films in her life. The picture house back home was a good while away from her hometown. She wasn't fond of big cities, everywhere was grey and smelled faintly of smog. The film had been an adaptation of Sleeping Beauty. A Soviet approved version of course. Even despite the lack of colour Danica enjoyed it; the smell of popcorn wafting in from the foyer doors, the subtle sound of people crunching in between mouthfuls.

The images of Itachi's mind were how she imagined films of the future. Every detail that he had committed to memory, down to graining of the tree bark, was there in front of her, so realistic she thought it was real. He had asked before putting his hands on her. Which was a first in itself. Ruslan never asked. Ruslan just took.

The stirring breeze rustled her thoughts. Goosebumps rippled on her skin, slithering down the length of her spine before coiling back up. Beside her, Itachi materialised; his form took the shape of thousands of black feathers, each one carefully outlining his silhouette until he came to be.

"Are you always this dramatic?" Danica cawed, her eyes noting how each feather was an extension of his being. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. In this form he oozed power. Undiluted and unwavering. A part of her wanted to take a step back, to run far away. The other part of her wanted to take a closer look, to see what truly lurked beneath the feathers and cool exterior.

She had only worn wings a few times in her life. She could never quite get the handle of flying; the maneuvering always threw her off balance and she would wake up just before she hit the ground. How she envied those who could fly, to just up and leave whenever they felt like it. She was tethered. Bound.

"It's this way." Itachi spoke, breaking her train of thought. He watched as she bristled, her shoulders hunching then unwinding, almost as if her body was always in self-defence mode. Ready to spring and recoil at a moment's notice.

Itachi led her through the forest of his reveries, to the clearing where he had first encountered the creature. It was like nothing he had seen before and he had fought many a yōkai in his time. None had ever made his blood run cold and his bones ache. It had been an abomination.

"There," Itachi paused and leant against a nearby tree, his hand subconsciously yearning for the katana at his side. "it came from the village."

Danica immediately stopped breathing. She knew she was in Itachi's memory, but she dared not move. The thing was hideous. Black pits occupied its eye sockets, yet amidst the depths she saw a hunger that would devour worlds at a time if given the chance. And she had seen it done before, a very long time ago.

"Stryzga."

"I beg your pardon?" Itachi raised a single dark brow, his lips puckering at the foreign word. Danica didn't remove her eyes from the creature's form. She undid the top button of her shirt as if the collar was suddenly too tight, a noose tightening around her throat.

"That," Danica's nose wrinkled and her tongue curled against the back of her teeth. "that thing is the epitome of all that is cruel and insidious. Even Death isn't as malicious as that thing." Itachi allowed his eyes to traipse back to the creature, the feeling of its breath on his face all too fresh.

"What is it exactly? A demon?" Itachi asked.

"It was human once." Danica replied. Her words were quiet, almost, woeful he noted. The way she looked at the creature was as if those seafoam eyes of hers could see past the carrion plastered jaws and bone splaying claws. It was as if she was peering into what was left of the creature's wretched soul. "A Stryzga is created when two souls are contained in one body. The dominant soul, usually the corrupt, distorts the host; twisting them until nothing remains but agony and an insatiable hunger."

"You seem familiar with this sort of thing." Danica peeled her eyes away from the Stryzga and met Itachi's gaze. She nodded but gave no explanation. "How do we kill it?"

"Decapitate it and burn the remains separately so the parts can't rejoin. Otherwise," An uncharacteristically dark smile crept onto her lips. "you're going to have to up the ante on your Godliness, because you will have one pissed off Stryzga on your hands."

Itachi didn't return her reaper's smile.

Back in the cabin, the logs on the fire crackled and hissed; the sound was more akin to bones snapping and final hisses of pain than firewood. It wasn't a foreign sound. It was a sound Danica was accustomed to. War often had a similar symphony, no Tchaikovsky lingered in the air after the bombs fell; it was more a cacophony of horrors. Terror would crescendo and fear would waltz with desperation. She knew the tune all too well - committed it to memory in fact.

"You really don't need to do this." Itachi droned, sounding like a pouting child. "I'm fine. It's completely unnecessary."

"Are you a medically trained professional?" Silence. "No, no I didn't think so, so shut it before I decide to gut you myself." Danica retorted back, gloves already unwinding yards of bloodied bandages.

"Your bedside manners are atrocious. Remind me why you're a nurse again if this is how you speak to your patients." Leaning back on his hands, a now shirtless Itachi allowed Danica to poke and prod his abdomen. He wouldn't admit it, but the Stryzga had caught him off guard. Being away from Japan had taken its toll on him, his godhood was limited and would dwindle the longer he remained.

He wouldn't admit that either.

"I treat my patients with the utmost respect." A sly poke in the ribs earned her a hiss and a warning glance. "You're lucky you're not a doctor, because then you'd get a piece of my mind."

Itachi stared blankly. "And you don't speak your mind freely now? Tch." Danica stood back, hands on hips and eyebrows quirked.

"By the God's you're a cranky asshole, aren't you?"

"I've had a good teacher." Itachi replied, a ghost of a smile visible on his lips. Danica stared at him, indication for him to continue. "I have a younger brother whose attitude probably rivals your's."

"My attitude, as you call it, is a intolerance to bullshit; an affliction I share with my sister." Danica muttered the last words, absentmindedly beginning to tend his wound. Itachi watched silently. Her demeanour had changed in an instant. "It's probably the only thing we have in common, thank fuck."

"What's your sister like?" Itachi asked, his usually dark orbs alight with intrigue. "Is she like you?"

Danica stared at the barrel of the gun in the form of a loaded question, her reflection gleaming in the polished metal. "My sister," She paused. "my sister is a nightmare dressed like a daydream. She is a force to be reckoned with." Danica threw her head back in laughter, wiping the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand. "You do not fuck with my sister. She will seriously fuck you up and have you begging for death. And then when Death is done with you, she will fuck you up some more."

Itachi didn't know whether to laugh or back away slowly. He knew powerful women. Powerful female deities that were feared and respected in a patriarchal world. But the way Danica spoke about her sister, he knew she wasn't fooling around. "Do you look alike? My brother and I," Itachi's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "We look alike, both of us have dark hair and dark eyes. Admittedly, despite being the younger brother, he is a little taller than I."

Danica tilted her head, curious, her own lips moulded into a faint smile. He never spoke of his family. At one point she thought he didn't have a family, that he simply came into existence.

"Vesna, my sister." Danica tucked a stray curl behind her ear; meanwhile, Itachi clung to every word, entranced. "She is spring and I am winter. She has golden locks of hair that gleams like freshly strewn wheat. She is everything warm in the world whilst I linger in the cold. We are complete opposites." Danica glanced back to the fire, the flames dancing wildly, just like her sister did every summer solstice.

"You dislike her." A statement rather than a question. Danica faced Itachi, the bloodied bandages in her hand that little bit heavier.

"We have a mutual dislike for one another. You have a brother, you should understand."

Itachi chuckled lowly. "Oh I understand, believe me. You do not want to be in the vicinity when we argue." Danica grinned wickedly.

"Try me."

Itachi stared at her, she was serious; she was unfazed by his own power. She was either incredibly foolish or considered ridiculously powerful in her lands.

"Japan wasn't always an archipelago." Itachi stated bluntly as if he were merely stating that the sky was blue or the grass was green.

"You broke Japan?"

"No, well, technically yes but-"

"So you broke your own country?" Itachi nodded, his actions cautionary and somewhat bashful. Danica howled wildly.

"You broke your fucking country? Who does that?!" Danica cradled her stomach, her ribs and stomach aching as uncouth cackles flooded past her lips whilst tears formed in her eyes.

Itachi couldn't help but stare, eyes glued to Danica's form. Her hair bounced free, the curls darting where they pleased. She was wild. Untamed despite the gold that gleamed on her finger and served as an unlikely prison sentence. She was remarkable.

Itachi laughed. He didn't care that it felt like his stitches would burst at any moment. He couldn't help it. The need. The guttural urge to laugh and smile. So he did. At first it was more of a cough, as if out of practice. Then the low chuckles erupted past his lips as they widen to show his pearly teeth.

"I can't believe," Danica gasped for air, her laughs wheezy as she attempted to rein in her composure. "that you broke your own country." Tears streamed down her face, trails of silver glistening down her olive skin.

He wouldn't admit it, but her laugh made him lose it. She was like a seal gasping for air as she waddled to the cabinet. Laughter still lilted in her voice, her words high pitched as the giggles began to die down and settle.

"Fuck me that's funny."


End file.
